a history of obedient girls and other lies
Before I ever knew what anger was, I understood quiet disappointment. It arrived early, without warning, moving through the house with me, folding itself into the silence between spoken rules and unspoken expectations. I didn't recognize it for what it was, not yet. I only knew I felt heavy, like I was always bracing for something I couldn't name.
I've often wondered whether rage is something we inherit, like bone structure or blood type, something encoded deep into the body long before we learn the meaning of the word. Mine didn't arrive with fists or fire. It came quietly, threading itself into my spine, curling in my stomach, settling behind my teeth like an unuttered prayer. For years, I mistook it for shyness. For silence. For the ache of being a girl who did everything right.
Some days, rage is the only thing that makes me feel alive. It simmers just beneath the skin, close enough to sting, never far enough to forget. I carry it everywhere. Into the bathroom. Into conversations. Into bed. It sleeps curled at the base of my spine and follows me like a shadow I've stopped trying to explain. Some days, it's fire. I feel it in my chest, my cheeks, the soles of my feet. The floor beneath me seems to burn, and I'm the only one who smells the smoke. Other days, it's cold, so cold that touching my own skin feels like reaching for someone long gone. I sit at the edge of my bed and can't feel my legs. I drink tea that scalds my tongue just to remind myself I'm still here.
Rage doesn't always look like a scream. Sometimes it looks like not being able to get out of bed. I was raised on instructions disguised as care. Things that sounded like guidance but felt more like rules for survival. Sit straight. Lower your voice. Be pleasing. Be smart, but not too smart. Be successful, but never intimidating. Be soft, but not weak. Be pretty. Be fair. Be something people can look at without discomfort. Smile, even when you're burning. Especially when you're burning.
I have been a good girl all my life. I have heard. I have repeated. I have learned those lines as scriptures. I have swallowed my anger with the same case I swallowed compliments I didn't believe. You're so mature. You're so strong. You carry yourself well. As if strength was a badge and not the shape my body took when no one ever came to help me.
I've tried everything to belong. I've been the pick-me girl, the girls' girl, the one who disappears in a room full of people, and the one who holds everyone else together with hands that won't stop shaking. I've said, "You'll be okay" with a voice that didn't sound like mine. There's something cruel about that. When the words that soothe others echo back as lies. When you become so good at performance you start to forget there's still a person somewhere underneath it.
And still, there's the shame. The kind that wakes you at 3:27 a.m. and asks if you remember what you did. The kind which no amount of goodness can cover. I've made mistakes. I've hurt people. I've betrayed people I shouldn't have. Sometimes I tell myself it was survival. That I didn't know any better. But it doesn't clean the blood from my hands. It doesn't un-bruise the trust I broke. The guilt is sticky. It clings to my skin, my memories, my dreams. It doesn't leave. It only changes shape. The rules that were supposed to save me lie discarded on the floor.
I carry the graves of other people's pain inside me. Women who came before. Girls who were told to behave, to shrink, to hide their thighs and their voices. Boys who were never allowed to cry. Forests that are burning. Oceans choking on waste. The stray dogs with ribcages like cages. The child I never got to be. I don't know where I end and they begin. I don't know if there's a me underneath all this weight, or if I'm just a vessel. A body that inherited grief and doesn't know where to place it.
When it becomes too heavy, I speak to God. Not always in prayer. Sometimes in silence. Sometimes in questions I can't bring myself to say aloud. He's the only one who's seen me in every version. I ask for small things now. Love. Rest. A soft place to land. I ask Him why IIe gave me this body, this aching, hungry, howling body, if I wasn't strong enough to live in it. And still, I thank Him. Still, I beg. Still, I whisper, just a little joy. Please. I won't ask for anything else.
The room is quiet, but not empty. The light above the sink flickers. Dust collects on the blades of the fan. The mirror is covered in fingerprints I never wiped off. The street outside is cracked. The trees look tired. A bird outside cries in a voice I can't tell is laughter or warning. Somewhere else, a woman is biting her tongue until it tastes like metal. Somewhere, a girl is learning to smile when she wants to scream.
And here I am. Boiling water I won't drink. Pressing send on messages I don't mean. Carrying on because that's what I was taught. Because rage this old doesn't ask to be seen anymore. It simply becomes the weather inside you. It curls around the bones. It sits beneath the skin. It waits.
And sometimes I wonder, if I ever put it down, even for a moment, would there be anything left of me to recognize.
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